


Comfort

by demonrubberducky



Series: Reconciliation [1]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Comfort, F/M, First Time, Religion, Religious Guilt, Spoilers, response to ep 09
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2013-06-10
Packaged: 2017-12-14 12:16:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/836768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demonrubberducky/pseuds/demonrubberducky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Episode 09 spoilers<br/>In the wake of the fever, Athelstan and Lagertha both struggle to cope with their loss and the guilt of surviving. A look at what might have happened after the final episode.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comfort

Kattegat was devastated in the wake of the fever. Livestock wandered along the dusty streets with no masters to attend them, and the ashes from the pyres trying in vain to reach the heavens. 

Athelstan, still weak from his illness, hauled buckets of water to the hall, eyes downcast and red from grief and from smoke. He’d had no time since he’d awoken from his fever-sleep to ask God why, once again, he’d been spared when so many around him died. First his brothers, then Leif at Uppsala, now Gyda and Thyri. But more still lay on their deathbeds, so his grieving would have to wait. There was so much work to be done, and so few left to do it. 

Less poor souls slumbered on the floors of the great hall now; only those who has resisted longest, fallen ill later. The rest had already woken or succumbed. 

The monk dragged his bucket inside and mopped the brows of the fever-sick, as he’d done for Thyri, as Lagertha had done for him. Maybe he could comfort this fisherman, he thought. Perhaps this slave girl will prevail where others did not. 

‘Your damp rag is useless,’ a voice whispered in his mind. ‘Just like your prayers.’ 

There was a time, a lifetime ago, it seemed, when Athelstan had thought the voice belonged to the devil. Now he accepted that is was only the darkness within himself. He was useless. The meager care he provided to the sick was not a comfort for them so much as for himself. 

Beside him, Siggy knelt, trying to feed broth to an unresponsive boy. It dribbled from his lips. The widow’s breath caught in a harsh sob. She had not spoken since Thyri’s funeral, had not cried or slept or eaten. She was a grim specter, the living dead caring for the dying. If Athelstan had a looking glass, he imagined he’d look much the same. 

Siggy tried a second time, then moved on to the next pallet. Athelstan wiped the broth off the boy’s lips and the sweat from his brow. He doubted the child would last until nightfall. Another life the monk had outlived, for no reason he could discern.  
………….  
As the sun set, a man pulled him away from the bowls he scrubbed and brought him to Lagertha’s chamber. 

“Priest, you will rest,” she ordered. She looked a little better than Siggy, who lay on a mat in the corner, finally collapsed from exhaustion, but only because the shield maiden hid her brokenness deeper inside. 

Athelstan shook his head, keeping his eyes away from her face. “There is still so much-”  
“It will wait until morning,” Lagertha interrupted. “You shall come to bed now.”

Athelstan thought she must have meant, ‘Go to bed,’ but as he turned to leave, she snatched his sleeve and pulled him toward the Jarl’s bed. 

“I cannot-”  
“Your vows are safe, priest. We will sleep.” The blonde shoved him down onto the soft furs that covered the mattress. “I will not have you sneaking out of your bed to return to work.” 

She crawled onto the bed beside him. She caught his eye, gave him a look to see if he would challenge what she had said. The monk did not. He would have defied her orders and returned to his duties in the hall. 

Lagertha growled at him. “You Christians and your suffering. Have we not suffered enough already?” She grabbed his tunic and hauled his face close to hers. This anger was the first emotion besides grief he’d seen on her since Gyda’s passing. Athelstan almost felt relieved. 

“You are weak, and you will rest,” the fierce woman ordered. “I will not lose you as well.”  
She released her hold on him and tugged the blankets out from beneath them. Athelstan lay, motionless, useless, as she covered them both, extinguished the candle on the table beside the bed, and wrapped her arms around him. When he tensed, she whispered in his ear.  
“My only daughter is dead, and my son and my husband are gone. Give me this comfort at least.”  
Athelstan nodded, and let her hold him. If he could do nothing else, he could at least be a warm body to stave away the cold emptiness of loss.  
………  
Three days later, Lagertha broke. The last of the fever-dead burned by the shore, and as they took their evening meal, smoke still clinging to their clothes, Athelstan eyed the pale lady idly picking at her food. 

“You must eat. You haven’t eaten in days,” the monk pointed out, unthinking. 

Lagertha froze. She clenched her spoon hard for a second, then dropped it and stood up. Her face betrayed nothing as she stalked out of the hall. 

Athelstan blinked. What had he…? 

Beside him, Siggy placed a hand on his shoulder. “Gyda,” she croaked, the first she’d spoken in nearly a week.

The last person who had said those words to Lagertha had been Gyda, urging her mother to eat as she worried over some foreboding doom. Now that doom was here, and Gyda was gone.

Athelstan stood, grabbing his plate as he trailed after the shield maiden. He followed her back to her chamber. As he entered, he placed the food on a table, rightly, as it was; the plate was scarcely from his hand before Lagertha tackled him. 

She hit and kneed frantically, scratched his face and tore at his hair. “How dare you! How dare you come here!” she cried. The tears she had kept trapped behind her eyes flowed now, streaking her face and making her look feral in her grief. Athelstan let her attack; if his life had taught him anything thus far, it was the art of turning his cheek and receiving what suffering life brought upon him. 

The warrior woman wrapped her hands around his throat and squeezed. “She bid me pray for you, as she lay dying,” she hissed. Her tears fell onto Athelstan’s face, mingling with his own. “I didn’t. I sacrificed for her…yet the gods took her and left me you.”

She released him with a snarl and stood, leaving him sprawled on the floor. 

“I wish they hadn’t,” Athelstan wheezed. For all that he had begged for his life at the monastery, and clung to it since, if God had given him the choice between himself and the little girl, he’d have traded it gladly. 

He hauled himself up and groped for the plate of bread and meat. “Eat. Please,” he urged. 

Lagertha crumpled onto the bed, all of her fight gone. “She told me she would die, and I promised her she would not.”

Athelstan approached, hesitantly, but her anger had bled into despair. She let him approach and take a seat beside her. He took her hand and held it tightly. 

“Your daughter had the kindest heart I have ever encountered. She is at peace now. I can feel her loss inside of me, like a gaping wound, and I know it must be even worse for you. But she wanted you to live. So please, eat.” He placed the hunk of bread in her hand. 

The blonde ate the bread, and a few pieces of meat that Athelstan tore off the bone and placed to her lips. He held a cup of water to her lips, and she drained it mechanically. It was a fraction of what he’d seen her eat after a long day at work on the farm, or after a rigorous night with Ragnar, but it was more than she’d had in weeks. Athelstan counted it a victory.

“I’ll take my leave now, my lady,” he said. He rose.

“Stay. Please,” Lagertha whispered. “You are all I have left.”

Athelstan wanted to remind her about her husband and her son, but they were so far away, possibly dead fighting King Horik’s battles. And the hole inside of him felt so insurmountable. He let her pull him down onto the bed.

He touched her tear-slick cheek. Her hair hung in tangles and his blood was drying under her nails. Athelstan bled from several places, and bruises littered his body. 

“What a pair we make,” he breathed, nose to nose with her. She closed the distance between them, and took what pleasure there was to be had from him.

……………….

Later, as Lagertha rang her fingers through his dark curls, she asked Athelstan, “Do you still believe in your god?”

He looked up her bare stomach, where he’d been tracing patterns with his fingers. “I…do not know. I doubt Him sometimes, but I think, in my heart, I still believe.”

The shield maiden nodded. “Will you…” she trailed off.

“I will pray for you daughter, to my God and your gods,” he finished for her. He gave her a sad smile, and she kissed his forehead like he’d seen her do to Gyda and Bjorn. 

Neither warrior nor monk could heal the pain the other felt, but at the least, they would not suffer alone.

**Author's Note:**

> If people want more, I may continue this as a series. I'd like to explore what will happen with Ragnar comes home (Aslaug in tow). Perhaps the OT3 can be reconciled into an OT4 (but only with lots of angst and struggle and Athelstan's beautiful, teary eyes). 
> 
> Also, this work is unbetaed, so apologies for any mistakes. If anyone sees anything, let me know and I will get it fixed.


End file.
